Biding Time
by Snape's Nightie
Summary: Severus Snape’s career changes dramatically after Voldemort wins the war. Not entirely consensual SSLV SLASH. Choose your own ending!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Characters and situations are JK Rowling's, because she is so clever. I am playing with them for non-profitmaking reasons. Thank you.

Warning: Slash and coerced consent, though no violence.

…….

In the end, Slytherin cunning triumphed.

A small amount of the newly-developed Imperius Potion went a long way when added to the floo network, and the water supply connected to Hogwarts. It took the Ministry two days to notice anything amiss, by which time the majority of wizarding Britain had been contaminated. All Voldemort had to do was issue his commands and, unable to resist, everyone obeyed.

Voldemort reasoned that now he no longer had any opposition, there was no further need for the wanton savagery or intimidation his followers had demonstrated during the war. There was no cause to resort to violence, with a couple of significant exceptions. Harry Potter had been Obliviated and dumped without his glasses on the outskirts of a remote small muggle town in America so he could no longer pose a threat. Albus Dumbledore had been painlessly eliminated without fuss as a clear and present danger to the new regime.

Less straightforward was the Mudblood Question. There was no denying that muggleborns held no place in a civilised magical society, but over the years the number of significant contributions they had collectively made to the betterment of the world made him hesitate to dispose of them altogether. The interim solution was to hold them in Azkaban, where they could not disgust normal people with their presence, but the brighter minds could still be discretely put to work for the good of society.

The Dark Lord decided that his fledgling new world would eventually require a ruling dynasty once things had settled down, a less distasteful solution than watching his voluntary followers squabble over who got to succeed him. He carefully selected a handful of fertile pureblooded witches and made them his wives. Unsurprisingly, the first to conceive was his favourite, the red-haired beauty Ginevra, whose blue eyes looked so charming under their glassy potion-trance that he unwisely repeated his mother's great mistake and convinced himself that she would be just as obliging without the Imperius.

Her response on being released from the potion's hold was so painful that Voldemort seriously doubted he would be able to beget any more heirs. Momentarily discouraged from interaction with females, he left her alone to gestate his son and turned his nocturnal attentions to his male concubine.

Severus supposed that he ought to do something about organising a resistance movement, but it was not easy when one was locked in the same room all day every day without magic.

Initially, he had convinced himself that acting too soon would be suicide, that he should lull the Master into a false sense of security before treating a few key former Order members with the antidote and restarting the war. But despite his slip with the Weasley wench, Voldemort was no fool. Like most megalomaniacs, he was a melodramatic man. He was oddly attracted to the starkness which was Severus Snape. Black eyes in a white face. Razor cheekbones and a prominent nose. Sharp hips and a concave belly. The physical aspects of the former spy were oddly alluring, but he never let them blind him to the fact that the clever, devious half-blood was a distorted mirror image of the Dark Lord himself. Voldemort did not trust him an inch. Snape's wand had been removed and the rowan-wood bead necklace he was forced to wear neutralised any attempts at perfecting wandless magic. He was confined to the comfortably furnished bedroom in Voldemort's palace, denied access to any other human being save his all-powerful Master.

Taking over the world had proved rather simple in the end and Voldemort was afraid that Snape would turn around one day and replace him, given half a chance. He made sure never to give even a quarter of a chance.

One could not be too careful with such a slippery snake.

The coup d'etat happened so fast, Snape had blinked and it had all been over. He had warned Dumbledore that the potion the Dark Lord was making him develop could be used to devastating effect; yet, preoccupied with other, more glamorous agents of the Light, the old man had patted him on the head and said he would look into it. His dalliance proved fatal. Suddenly the Dark Lord was telling everyone what to do and, amazingly, they did it.

He had hoped for a role in government, like the new Minister for Justice, Bellatrix, or the Headmastership of Hogwarts which Malfoy had landed, but Voldemort had a much more intimate position in mind for him.

It was not a bad life, really. Fortunately, the Dark Lord gained a good deal of satisfaction from watching the power his caresses had on his partner, so he was a surprisingly considerate lover. Snape had never had so much sex in his life.

During the day, he read books, took baths or stared out of the enchanted window, which showed only those things his Master wanted him to see. He tried not to eat too much in case he changed shape and lost whatever odd quality Voldemort found attractive. He did not like to imagine what would happen if he grew bored with his concubine. He knew that he ought to feel humiliated at such a demeaning incarceration, that he ought to struggle against the situation or possibly kill himself rather than lose the final shreds of his honour in this way. Not to mention his duty to get hold of the antidote and administer it to key personnel able to wrest control of the country from Voldemort.

However, once he had grown used to the arrangement and realised that he was not destined for death or any substantial torture, he began to relax. He had not felt relaxed in more than twenty years – possibly never in his life. He was by nature an adaptable person, so he accepted the huge changes and looked to the bright side. There were no critical decisions to be made any more, no shrieking children underfoot, no need for lies or fighting with colleagues, no Harry Potter. All he had to do was enjoy the silence and blessed solitude all day, then provide…comforts for the Dark Lord in the evening. Was it any wonder, he asked himself, that he had taken no steps towards changing the world? Pleasuring a deformed madman thirty years his senior was infinitely preferable to the daily grind of existence at Hogwarts. He had a feeling that Voldemort knew this, too.

…….

The new Minister for Magic arrives home from a hard day's despotism and flops into his favourite chair.

"How was your day, Master?" asks Snape, kneeling to remove his boots and briefly rub the aching feet. Voldemort groans emphatically.

"One would think, Severus, that with no opposition to my rule, getting things done would be a simple matter. Mm, up a bit, just there. Perfect," he directs the massage with his eyes closed and his head lolling backwards as the tension begins to lift.

"The old regime was famous for its bureaucratic lethargy, Master," Snape consoles him. He brings the magically sealed bottle of firewhiskey and a tumbler, knowing the Dark Lord does not trust the brewing genius not to poison him. He will pour his own drink. "It is bound to take a while to undo the centuries of incompetence practised by those bumbling fools."

"I know, I know," he sighs, taking a generous sip of the scorching liquid. "Would that the others were as wise as you, my concubine."

Severus smiles and kisses him on the cheek in acknowledgement of the compliment, treating himself to the mental image of the Death Eaters running around the corridors of power trying to find form NDV456(a)part III, Section 93.1xvii, appended, with the Dark Lord screaming because nobody understands the complex system of regulations for the disposal of magical waste-products in muggle hard-water areas, or whatever today's crisis had been. As far as he could tell, his own role in the new administration was one of the easiest.

Over supper – Voldemort is never home from work in time to eat dinner – Snape distracts his Master from the burdens of the day by updating him of the developments in the novel he has been reading. He is shocked to hear that the heroine is actually the illegitimate daughter of the evil warlock who has kidnapped her True Love and transfigured him into a kind of lollipop.

"She will have to kill him now," opines the Dark Lord, attacking the camembert. "They always murder the estranged and sinister fathers."

"We did," Snape smirks, getting the hissing laugh he was hoping for. "I shall find out tomorrow. Master, may I be so bold as to remind you that eating too much cheese so late at night rarely agrees with you."

"Correct once again, Severus," he grimaces, putting the oozing chunk back onto the cheeseboard.

Voldemort suspects that the younger wizard is probably up to no good, but permits himself the illusion of having someone to watch over him. No one ever has before.

Later, beneath skilled hands and lips, Snape concentrates on making the little whimpering sounds which drive his master wild with desire, though he can already tell that there will be no marathon session tonight. As if in confirmation, Voldemort gives a frustrated grunt and rolls back to his side of the bed in annoyance as inspiration fails him. Snape waits for him to calm down for a couple of minutes before wrapping a consoling arm around him and kissing the back of his neck.

"What am I to do with the mudbloods?" he sounds rather hopeless. The question has been asked again and again, yet none of his followers can ever come up with a sensible answer. Snape knows it is his moral responsibility to resist the urge to advise simply killing them all. If he ever decides to start a resistance movement, he will need Granger and Shacklebolt alive if they are to stand the faintest chance of success, anyway.

The Dark Lord tenses in his arms.

"Shall I just dispose of them, Severus?" he wonders, as lightly as if deciding what colour socks to wear rather than the fate of hundreds of people. Snape swallows.

"My Lord, their relatives would notice, if they haven't already," he suggests. Having been a teacher, his first thought is of the proud parents waiting in vain at King's Cross station for the homeward Hogwarts Express, walking slap into the wall between platforms 9 and 10. Would they dare contact the police? Who would believe their stories?

"Lucius is all for Obliviating them and dumping them, like Potter," pontificates Voldemort.

"There are far too many, Master. Muggles would notice if hundreds of lunatics started appearing," Snape reasons. "They are not all complete dunderheads."

"Precisely what I told him, my pet," he finally turns over and gives in to snuggling, the shame of his earlier failure fading in the face of this serious debate. He sprawls over Snape with a possessive, if slightly distracted air. "This is where you and I have the advantage over the purebloods. Malfoy views the billions of muggles in the world as nothing more than cattle with prehensile digits. We can understand both magical and non-magical societies…" he tails off into silence, sounding more troubled than ever, though he does not relinquish his hold on his captive lover.

Severus wisely makes no comment, his keen sense of self-preservation recognising the danger of dwelling upon the weak point in the Dark Lord's ideology.

Voldemort would like to get rid of all muggles, yet he knows that without them, the relatively small numbers of wizards would become in-bred monsters, mutating themselves into sterility and extinction.

Now he rules magical Britain, he would like to rule the muggles too. However, the effort required to keep such large number of people under control would outweigh the benefits of being in charge in the first place.

He has given up all thought of trying conquer overseas wizarding societies since nearly all of them sent threats of unilateral intervention if he so much as _scries_ across the Channel at magical Europe. They are all still smarting from the sweeping invasion of most of the Continent by Grindelwald sixty years ago, and have organised a system of political co operation to ensure it can never happen again.

So, here they are, the UK's uncontested Minister for Magic lying atop his imprisoned whore, ruling a community by coercion without a clear vision of exactly what he is trying to achieve. In his many hours alone, Severus sometimes has worrying visions of the future and what would happen if wizards started overcoming the potion, or if the mudbloods being forced to brew the top-up doses found an undetectable way of sabotaging the supplies. He knows that as the lover of the Dictator he would be in serious trouble but clings to the hope that he would have the guile to survive. It is the one thing he excels at.

Each day of his life has been a struggle for survival – against his father, the marauders, the Death Eaters, the Order, the children of Hogwarts, the bloody final battles and now, sharing the bed of the world's newest dictator.

Snape wonders what it feels like to be able to act under one's own free will.

All these months of seeing no one but the Dark Lord has obviously turning him into a bit drama queen – it was not strictly true. He_ had_ been able to make decisions in the past, and he had made some serious howlers. A decision with ramifications for every witch and wizard lay within his power now; just a small matter of whether or not to find a way to end the current madness and save the world.

He could do it, he knows, if he starts using his brain again. There was bound to be a gap somewhere in Voldemort's defences, just waiting to be exploited by his enemies. He could easily shrug of the comfort of the peaceful routine and fling himself back into the crazy struggle that was War in order to do the Right Thing. Risk his life at every turn by striking against the most powerful man in the country for the sake of ungrateful strangers. Or he could leave things as they stood – no rights but no responsibilities either. Just reading books alone all day in exchange for simpering and spreading his legs each night.

It was a tough one.

It seems that Voldemort has also been thinking, because he has recovered his lost mojo and is stroking Snape's chest hair, flicking his tongue over brownish nipples and pressing against him with no uncertain intentions. Snape lets go of his mental dilemma and relaxes completely to allow himself to be breached. The Dark Lord is pleased and sets a gentle pace, before surreptitiously summoning his wand and casting;

"Hedonismus!"

The diametric opposite of "Cruciatus", the spell causes intense pleasure in every fibre of the recipient's being, and the Dark Lord does not use it very often. Though the curse has a positive effect, it is still highly dangerous and officially classified as dark and illegal.

Snape screams in ecstasy, writhing in unadulterated joy beneath his captor. Voldemort delights in the sight and the feel of it and soon both men are coming so violently they tumble into oblivion in a sticky tangle of gasping, earth-rocking orgasm.

Hours later, an elf quietly shakes the Minister's shoulder and he rises, washes and dresses quietly, in preparation for another day of the government he fought to establish. He had never dreamed it would be this challenging once everyone was on his side. He repeats the old proverb about Rome not being built in a day under his breath, like a chanting hex, hoping that he is right and it will become easier.

"Have a productive day," croaks a hoarse voice from the bed. Snape is in disarray from the power of the previous night's Hedonismus and Voldemort knows he will spend most of the day sleeping it off. He wonders idly if the treacherous snake is already plotting against him, or if he has not yet begun. He is fully aware that he should not have let him live, that he is just as great a danger as the Old Fool and the boy-who-lived had been, but with the political situation irritating him so badly, Voldemort is pathetically grateful for the comfort he gleans from the younger man.

He leans over the bed and kisses the bruised lips, a last moment of enjoyment before he returns to the London madhouse.

Snape is having difficulty coming down from his intoxicating high. He feels deliciously woozy, as though every cell in his body is still humming with aftershocks and wonders why he ever considered ending this, the best thing that life has ever thrown at him, for a vague sense of loyalty to people who never liked him.

Of course, it has occurred to Severus more than once that he has no proof the Dark Lord is telling the truth. Having lost consciousness in the first few minutes of the alleged final battle, he has only one wizard's word that the Light was defeated at all. For all he knows, Voldemort could be manipulating him for some complicated and nefarious purpose, and he will break out one day to find Albus at Hogwarts, Scrimgeour at the Ministry, Potter in a sulk and everything else as it should be.

For some reason, this does not encourage him to escape.

He lies in bed, for that is his only duty now, and yawns idly. He will leave it just a little longer before doing anything drastic.

He will bide his time.

AN: Not my usual thing, but I hope you enjoyed! Might investigate what-happened-next if people think it's worth it. Hope no one was offended by anything x

For some reason, Lucidity has asked for a dedication this time, which I shouldn't really do until she agrees to start writing some more HP fics...

Thanks for reading, guys! Love SN x


	2. Chapter 2

Due to some wonderful responses, here's another chapter! This is **Alternative Ending Number One**. (M rating, remember! In this case, man-sex and rude words. Don't say I didn't warn you.)

I will leave the choice up to you, but it might have happened like this….

……

The door to the bedroom bangs open, revealing an exceptionally predatory-looking Voldemort. He makes a big show of sealing the door with locking spells, the kind which keep people in, rather than keep people out.

"So!" he exclaims evilly, red eyes glinting with flagrant lust and a playfulness which confuses Snape for a moment. "What a delightful creature! What fool has left a beauty like you alone and unprotected?"

It dawns on Severus that the Dark Lord is in a mood for a little role-playing and he clears his head for an evening of acting out fantasies of forced seduction, suspecting that if he plays the part well enough, things never need progress to more unpleasant acts which make him scream for real. He starts up from his seat with feigned alarm.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he demands imperiously.

Voldemort gives a very slight nod of approval at his plaything's immediate understanding. He can never regret keeping the sly one alive – he instinctively plays whatever part is required of him perfectly, which means his master has no need to resort to other, less familiar outlets, save for procreative purposes, of course. He has never been fond of intimacy with strangers, the Weasley harpy's recent assault on the more delicate areas of his person serving as a reminder that the world has always been peculiarly cruel to him.

He throws his head back and cackles, stalking into the room like a tiger sighting its prey.

"My identity is of no importance. And as for what I want…" he reaches Snape's side and leers at him, snaking an arm around his waist and pulling the lean body against his. "Why, I want you, my little dark one."

"Unhand me, you fiend!" cries Severus, pushing Voldemort away with some violence. They tussle briefly and the concubine allows himself to be overcome and pinned to the floor, but puts up a show of struggling desperately.

"Such spirit!" laughs the older wizard. "But resistance is futile! You _will_ submit to me, my precious!"

"Never!" he shrieks. "My Master is a far greater wizard than you! He will reduce you to ashes for this impudence!"

Voldemort is impressed and breaks character for a second to raise an amused eyebrow at Snape, who grins. Wily rapist once again, he sucks at the pale neck, pinching the skin harshly between his teeth until his captive gasps.

"None can save you now," he growls, grinding his hips against Snape's. "You are mine. Mine!"

"No! Please!" begs Severus breathlessly, more aroused than he cares to admit. He twists and moans as each attempt to wriggle free is mercilessly thwarted by a laughing Dark Lord, who alternates his sharp bites with lascivious licking and deep, plunging kisses to his protesting mouth. His wrists tingle as a partial binding spell fixes them firmly to the floor and the fabric of his shirt rips against his skin as it is roughly torn away. The rest of his clothing vanishes and his legs are resting over Voldemort's shoulders.

"To whom do you belong, little whore?" pants the Dark Lord, eyes feral with lust as he pushes the first thrust inside of Snape.

"You! To you!" the former spy wails, arching into every slamming intrusion as much as his bonds will allow and probably no longer acting.

"That's right," he snarls, brokenly. "Mine."

"Yesss!" Snape screams, just before he blacks out.

…….

The next morning he is still pinned to the floor when he wakes, though the rich red throw blanket is tucked neatly around his naked body. Experience has taught him that the spell will have weakened by now and few minutes of working his wrists should be enough to release it.

Once he is free, Severus sits up and stretches, taking stock of his injuries from the night before. Nothing is serious, some bruises, stiffness and a rather intimate ache, but the carefully-measured dose of healing potion sitting on the breakfast table should be more than adequate. Something else is wrong, however. Nothing painful, rather a slight change to the physical sense of self which he cannot comprehend until he shifts slightly and puts his hand on a wooden bead lying on the carpet.

He stares for a long time before his hands creep up to his neck and feel nothing but his own skin.

The magic-inhibiting necklace evidently broke during the struggle. It was bewitched to resist any attempt by Snape to remove it, so it must have been Voldemort who accidentally tore the string in the throes of passion. Rowan beads are dotted around the room, some on the floor, some nestling in the damaged shirt lying crumpled next to him.

He takes a deep breath and focuses on the paperback novel he had been reading, resting on the arm of the chair by the fire. He has no wand, so there is no point annunciating the word, but his mind forcefully commands 'Accio book!' It does not move. He tries again, throwing more energy at the spell. This time, the cover flips open and the first few pages rustle.

Leaping to his feet, he flings aside the blanket, closes his eyes and visualises eleven and a half inches of beloved ebony, summoning the intoxicating feeling he first had twenty-nine years ago in Ollivander's dusty shop, when the instrument chose him. 'Accio my beautiful, precious wand' he purrs, clenching his fists.

When he opens his right hand, there it is, familiar and wonderful – the scorch mark halfway down where it rolled too close to a cauldron, the small chunk missing at the end from a hasty duel with Moody during his first month as a Death Eater – but otherwise intact.

"Hello," he coos at it, grinning like a skull. It hums back happily.

He downs the potion, grabs a fresh set of clothes and looks back at the bedroom which has been his prison for…how long? A few months? A year? He has no way of knowing.

He stands motionless, wondering what lies beyond the door. There could be literally _anything_ awaiting him on the other side of that piece of wood. Curiosity kills cats. But Snape is not a cat and nobody ever bothered to make a proverb about potions masters. Should he give up the existence which has brought him comfort and stability for the first time in his life, for a foolhardy and possibly fatal attempt at fighting tyranny, or sit down in his chair and continue with his trashy book like a good little love-slave?

He wavers.

Finally, he says, "Oh, fuck it," and blasts the door into splinters. He has never been the sort of person who can live a quiet life.

…….

Snape sits in his office, trying to make sense of the latest report, sitting in all its 300-page glory on his desk. It has been two years since the revolution and the country is still a mess from the chaos which the Death Eater administration managed to inflict before its ignoble defeat. Predictably, it did not take long for everyone to start bickering and hiding behind their damaged bureaucracy again once the final effects of the Imperius potion had been neutralised, but they had been almost unanimous on the question of leadership.

There is a soft tap on the door.

"Come," sighs Snape, resigned to not getting past the second paragraph of the paper. A ginger head pops into the office.

"Minister?"

"Yes, Mr Weasley, what is it now?" Severus fixes Percy with an even stare.

"Remus would like to know if he can clarify a couple of points so he can start your biography," noticing the frown begin to form, he quickly adds, "He swears it won't take long. He knows the Prime Minister is expecting you at eleven."

"Very well," he resigns himself to ten minutes of the obsequious werewolf's loathsome presence, knowing that forcing himself to be pleasant to his old adversary is the smoothest way to secure his place in posterity's roll of honour.

The interview is every bit as tedious as expected, though he conceals it as best he can. Lupin covers the same facts over and over again, making sure he gets them right, Snape feeling as harassed as when he first had to explain how he changed the world, at Voldemort's trial.

Yes, his first thought had been to locate the mudbloods' wands and take them to Azkaban, thus empowering the only set of non-Death Eater wizards not under the influence of the potion.

No, the guards had not questioned his actions once he had shown them the Dark Mark on his forearm.

Yes, Draco had been the DE in charge of supervising the mu…muggleborns brewing the potion. Yes, the boy had already been planning to break out Granger and flee the country to set up a love-nest somewhere. No, he had not dared argue when she insisted they liberate everyone else instead. Yes, they had both followed his instructions for the brewing of the antidote and equipped the rest of the inmates with a supply. Yes, they had all then apparated to different locations around the country to administer the new potion, while aurors, Order members and the insufferable brats who used to worship Potter (wherever he may be) had sprung a surprise attack on Voldemort's Ministry.

No, he had seen no reason to turn down the grateful country's offer of power. No, he had no plans to abolish democratic procedures and set up his own dictatorship. At present.

No, he bloody well did not join the Death Eaters because his Daddy used to hit his Mummy, what kind of idiot question was that anyway, you blasted beast?

Does he miss Voldemort?

My, my, how time flies. He really should be heading for Downing Street about now. Lupin recognises a dismissal when he hears one and limps out, scrolls and scrolls of notes tucked under his good arm.

He moves to the window which looks over the bustling Ministry courtyard and feels heavy with the responsibility thrust upon him. He could have turned down office, of course, but he is not sure that he trusts any of those idiots with such an important task as running the magical country.

Does he miss Voldemort?

The evil, disfigured Dark Lord who killed, maimed and ruined hundreds of lives. Who kept him imprisoned in a single room for eighteen months without seeing another human being, as nothing but a fucktoy. If Lupin asks again, he will say No, absolutely not.

But of an evening in the enormous Highgate mansion, perk of the job, he will sometimes feel lonely and unattractive, and find himself subconsciously waiting for the door to fly open and his Master to return and ravish him, then leave him to read all day with no decisions to make and no burdens to carry.

Does he miss Voldemort?

Yes. Yes, actually, the Minister does.

…….

AN: Alternative ending Number One! I've never done Snape-takes-over before and I confess, it's fun!

Thanks for your encouraging reviews, so glad you like. Love SN x

…….

A sort of pointless EPILOGUE which insisted on writing itself, in keeping with the first chapter of HBP.

It is the Easter school holidays and from his seat in the waiting room next to the Prime Minister's office, Snape can hear the man arguing with his son.

"Leo, please. You cannot play with that in here!"

"Why?"

"Because Daddy is busy."

"Why?"

"Because there is lots of work to do."

"Why?"

"Because I have a very important job."

"Why?"

"_Leo_…"

"You can't tell me off! I'm a wizard! I'll turn you into a frog! Hah hah! Blam!"

"Out, young man! I have a meeting with…with the Other Minister now."

"Who?"

"Out!"

The door creaks open and a blond boy galumphs past, a pointed paper hat on his head and his legs straddling a red plastic mop. The Prime Minister emerges, shaking Snape's hand apologetically.

"Please excuse him, Severus. It's hard to teach them to be culturally sensitive towards a community which isn't supposed to exist," he simpers. Snape smirks and looks the leader up and down.

"You have considered the possibility that he may actually be a wizard, Anthony?"

"Oh, that's highly unlikely, surely?" The PM boggles at him.

Snape makes no reply, wondering how long it will take his muggle counterpart to notice that his feet are now green, webbed and vaguely slimy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Alternative Ending Number 2**. Again, beware slash etc. There's a bit of bondage, too.

…….

Snape is half asleep when he feels Voldemort slip out of bed and away. It seems rather early to be morning already, but he is too exhausted to pay much attention.

Cataloguing his hurts, Severus registers a swollen eye, his lower lip almost chewed through, bites down his neck, candle wax blisters on his torso, cuts where his fingernails broke the skin on his palms, chafed and bleeding wrists where he had struggled against the ropes still binding his hands to the headboard, various generalised bruises and a the unmistakable sensation of having been ruptured.

It had been a wild night.

By rights, he should be in agony, but after three intense rounds of Hedonismus everything is blurry and indistinct. His ears are ringing and he has noted the damage impartially, without feeling any of the pain which he ought to be in. In the morning, once he can co ordinate for more than two seconds at a time, he will reach for the healing potion which the Dark Lord will have left on the night-stand and everything will be cured before he has had chance to suffer any real discomfort.

The bedroom games are rarely this violent, but he cannot bring himself to regret a second of it. His Master can make him feel so needed, so sensual, so desired, that he will do anything to please him nowadays. It came as a shock to Snape when he discovered how much he enjoys being restrained and erotically roughed up – he supposes it is something to do with his twisted past and the pleasure/pain principle – and it delights Voldemort to be able to simultaneously dominate and excite his dearest subject to such a thorough extent.

Severus drifts back to sleep, sated and content. He awakens again some time later to the sounds of voices, which is odd, because no one but his Master is allowed inside this room, but he is still riding the waves of the pleasure curse and pays no real attention.

Perhaps a short while later, perhaps hours, the voices are much closer and one of them is repeating the same sibilant word over and over. Through a haze he registered that he is being touched. The feel of a hand against his skin triggers an aftershock of Hedonismus and he shudders, giving a loud groan. The voice says the word again, almost in his ear this time.

"Severus?"

Something familiar about that word, but it doesn't seem to matter. Another voice on the other side of him now.

"Sweet Merlin! Is that really Professor Snape?"

Another familiar word, spoken far, far away. Another shiver of curse residue ripples.

"Hush! You're scaring him. Severus, my boy, can you hear me? It's all right, you're safe now."

"Albus? The scan just showed that…he…well."

"Yes?"

The voices fade to whispers for a moment and he hears a gasp of horror.

"Raped?"

"Quite violently, as far as I can tell."

"Good grief! You mean all this time, Tom has imprisoned him here and has been…"

"It looks like it, Albus. There are also signs of long-term exposure to serious curses. Probably Cruciatus."

"Good grief."

Snape wishes they would shut up and go away. He plans to sleep all day so that he is nice and fresh for when his Master returns in the evening, the older man will need him to be in good condition to rub his feet and kiss away the trials of the day. His last waking thought is how pleasant it is to have a familiar routine to his days. And nights.

…….

Four fluid ounces of Prenderghast's Patent Muscle-repairing Tonic is poured into his mouth, not the mild version used domestically, but the stronger stuff used by St Mungo's and the professional Quidditch Medi-wizards. He wonders why his Master is administering the potion, instead of giving him the independence of doing it himself. He opens his eyes to ask and almost cries out in shock.

He is not in their room!

This place is white and bright an institutional, it smells wrong and feels wrong and…oh, Merlin, there is someone _else_ with him! The Dark Lord will go crazy. He kicks off the covers and tries to leave.

"Now, now, Severus, do stay calm, my boy," he is gently but firmly pushed back into bed. The sensation of a stranger trying to force him into doing what only his Master is permitted to do feels so alien that he panics.

"Let go of me!" he shouts, shoving against the surprising strength of a very old, white-bearded man. It is only when he looks up that he realises just how wrong this situation is. There is a serious problem here. The man is Albus Dumbledore, very much alive when Master had said he was dead. All the fight leaves him and he collapses limply backwards to await his fate.

"Oh, my dear, I am so sorry," he looks devastated as he leans over and arranges Snape more comfortably in the hospital bed. "I did not mean to upset you, after all that you have suffered, but you must lie down and rest. Are you in any pain?"

Snape stares at him blankly and says nothing. He has forgotten how to speak to people other than his Master. Dumbledore reaches out to take his hand and strokes it as though trying to sooth an injured creature, his brow furrowing in concern.

"Child, you do understand that you are safe now, don't you? Quite safe. He can't hurt you any more."

Snape does not know what the Headmaster is talking about – no one has hurt him for a very long time now, things are not how they used to be - until something occurs to him.

"Am I dead?" he asks, glancing around for evidence of clouds, angels and whatnot. There are certainly too many white surfaces for it to be the other place. Or so he hopes.

"_No_, Severus!" Albus looks so horrified that Snape flinches in expectation of some punishment. When nothing painful happens and no further explanation is forthcoming, he ventures another question.

"Then, where is my Master?" he asks timidly. Dumbledore's eyes are suddenly very watery as he reaches up with a deliberate gentleness and touches his cheek.

"You have no master, child. You are free."

He is not certain what that word means, but for some reason the pronouncement of it makes the bright room spin around him and he tugs the sheet up over his head, hoping that things will be back to normal soon.

…….

Hours of explanations later, he realises that the Dark Lord was either lying to him from the start, or was wildly delusional himself.

The Imperius potion worked perfectly on the population at large, but fortunately, following Severus' warnings, a neutralising solution was secretly issued to key Ministry personnel and Order members. Not expecting resistance, the Death Eaters had been unprepared for the full-scale fight which erupted when they tried to seize control.

Soon after Snape was knocked cold by a falling piece of masonry, the Death Eaters lost the battle. Voldemort was backed into a corner by a crazed Potter, but he escaped by seizing hold of the unconscious spy as a hostage and tandem-apparating them away. The room where he had spent the last two years – could it really be that long? – was actually in the basement of the dilapidated mill in Spinner's End, treated with the strongest notice-me-not charms the aurors had ever seen. When they finally tracked the evil wizard down, the Light fighters were in no mood to be merciful. Voldemort was surrounded and killed on sight. Even after his death, it took them a long time to take down the wards he had placed on whatever precious thing he was trying to protect in the cellar. They were absolutely astounded to find Snape still alive, having declared him missing-presumed-dead long ago.

No one seems to know how the Dark Lord had spent his time when he was not with Snape, nor what he planned to do next.

Some suggest that the defeat had unhinged him completely and he actually believed the lies he told his concubine.

The questions are endless, leaving Severus feeling ignorant and duped, not to mention hating everyone who dares to look at him with pitying eyes over the frightful 'ordeal' he has suffered. He does not contradict their assumptions about the nature of his captivity. It is none of their damned business, anyway. One of the interfering psyche-witches leaves a pamphlet of drivel for him on something called 'Stockholm Syndrome' which he reads three lines of before incinerating.

Dumbledore returns in the evening with an assortment of sweets and a bouquet of deep purple tulips.

"They were the closest thing the florist had to black. Or at least, the closest non-venomous thing," he clarifies cheerfully, though Snape can feel the intense scrutiny behind the innocuous expression. "How are you feeling, Severus?"

He shrugs. "Confused, I suppose," he confesses. Dumbledore nods.

"Perfectly natural," he leans closer. "Is there anything I can do, dear boy?"

Snape ponders this. He is not sure where his life is going, still having a lot of mental readjustments to make, but it is not a decision he is capable of thinking about yet. He shakes his head.

"We are all looking forward to having you back at Hogwarts," Albus enthuses. "There has been a really playful atmosphere since the victory. The Weasley twins must be making a fortune – one cannot sit through a single meal in the Great Hall without an hilarious escapade unfolding! Harry is teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts, and of course, everyone is in love with little Sirius…"

"Who?" demands Snape, feeling chills begin to creep down his spine.

"Oh, sorry, Severus. I quite forgot. It seems Harry got rather carried away when celebrating with Miss Weasley after the battle and…well…Molly pushed the wedding through very quickly. Sirius is fifteen months old now and such a cheeky little imp. I think he will definitely be in Gryffindor in ten years' time, it will be so much fun for us all, teaching him!" Happily crunching away at his lemon drops, Albus does not see the shadow crossing the younger man's face.

The spawn of a Weasley and a Potter, named after Snape's nemesis, loose in the castle and at the age where destruction is the only worthwhile pastime. The brat-who-lived in the job which should have been his years ago. A complete breakdown of law and order. Snape swallows the quaffle which has materialised inside his throat and he swears never, ever to teach again, as long as there is breath left in his body.

But what are the alternatives? He feels exhausted in mind and spirit, not just from the gallons of medicine which he had consumed since his alleged liberation. Somehow, he does not want to do anything serious or responsible, like cope with hundreds of disgusting adolescents on a daily basis; but the thought of starting a completely new profession leaves him cold. What does he truly want to spend the rest of his life doing?

He thinks about it in depth for a long time. Then he decides. Then he sets about achieving his goal.

…….

Snape puts down his novel when he hears the door open.

"How was your day?" he asks, as his lover tugs off his glasses and sits down wearily in his favourite chair. Snape unlaces his boots and replaces them with the pink fluffy slippers which are much kinder on the aged bunions.

"Oh, Severus, one would think that the Board of Governors might be tempted to agree with me, every once in a while, but no. I must fight, fight, fight, all the way," he rubs his eyes.

"It amazes me that with your level of skill you cannot find some way to manipulate them," comments Snape amiably.

Dumbledore beams down at him, wondering how on earth he managed for so long without such wonderful care and support. He plants a kiss on the pale forehead and pulls the dark-haired wizard into his lap.

"Will you help me plot something truly devious for them, my love?" he asks tenderly.

"It will be a pleasure," the response is smirked back at him.

Later, lazing in bed with the younger lover who had revolutionised his existence, the Headmaster remembers something he overheard at lunchtime.

"There is a new one today, Severus," he murmurs. Snape rests his head on Albus' chest and hums to make him continue. "Apparently, Voldemort turned you into a veela and I keep you imprisoned in my rooms for fear that your great beauty will makeanyone who sees youwant to steal you away from my bed! What do you think of that?"

"Not bad," he smiles, appraisingly. "Seven out of ten. My favourite is still the one where I am a vampire and you let me drink your blood on the condition that I never leave the room to harm anyone else." He snaps his teeth playfullyat Dumbledore's neck.

"Why does that fail to surprise me?" blue eyes roll.

There is a relaxed silence for a few moments, as the two men lie together, content to merely appreciate the silence and each other. Severus is drifting off to sleep when Albus finally speaks.

"I wish you would go out sometimes, love," he says quietly. "Just once in a while. Once a month, even. I still worry about you, trapped up here all the time."

Snape sighs at the familiar nagging and explains, for possibly the five hundredth time, that he has no wish to go outside, to interact with others, or to do anything but stay in the bedroom all day and relax until his m…lover comes home.

No, he is not suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, agoraphobia or any other condition with a fancy name. He has simply decided that in the past he spent too much time doing complicated and dangerous acts against his better judgement. Now there is no more need for pain, he wants to live peacefully, doing what _he_ wants to do instead.

No, he is not bored with devoting himself to a saggy old fool, and he would prefer Dumbledore not to refer to himself in such terms, thank you.

No, he does not want any visitors invading his space. His epistolary correspondence with Minerva is quite enough variety of opinion.

No, he does not want any form of therapy.

Yes, he is happy.

"I am glad of that," Albus sighs, when Severus finishes explaining the old arguments. "Because I am happier than I have ever been. I must ask you something, however. Do you...oh dear, I am not sure how to phrase this. Please do not take this the wrong way, my dearest, dearest boy. I know he kidnapped you, harmed you and abused you dreadfully, but at times I have the distinct impression that you…miss Tom, in a way."

Leaning back against the pillows, Snape ponders the question. His current situation is so much safer than the old one. He is not afraid to make requests for new comforts. He can use magic whenever he pleases. Should he so desire, he can leave at any time in order to undertake any (legal) activity that takes his fancy. But for now, he prefers to while away the days doing nothing and enjoy the nights with his lover_because he can_.

Does he miss the Dark Lord?

Albus cannot provoke the frisson of danger which used to arouse Severus when he was with Voldemort, and it appears no amount of pleading or sexual blackmail will make the old goody-two-shoes bite, slap or indulge the kinks which he learned a taste for as a prisoner. Snape suspects the reluctance stems from the day he found the captive in his damaged, post-bondage session state, so long ago, now. Yet he is very good at cuddling, worshipping and generally making Snape feel precious and worthy of adoration, which goes a long way towards counteracting the missing element of danger. It seems odd, as he always imagined Gryffindors would be daredevils in bed, showing off their prowess to an alarming degree with props, toys and possibly whole crowds of cheering fans. This venerable King of the Lions is content to devote hours and hours every evening to gently discovering the most romantic way to bring his ugly Slytherin lover to the brink. He does it perfectly, too.

Does he miss the Dark Lord?

He glances over at Albus, who is conjuring a cup of tea just the way Severus likes it in his favourite cup, carefully adjusting the milk-to-tea ratio and bringing it to the exact temperature which he prefers. He hands it over with a tender little kiss, then watches while he takes the first sip, just to make no mistakes have been made.

"Not really," he tells him with a small smile.

…….

A bit darker, a bit screwed up! I think Voldemort finally lost the plot when he lost the battle. Don't pity Severus - he's perfectly happy for the first time in his life!

Thanks for some wonderful comments and suggestions. Just one more ending to choose from, I think! Thank you for reading, love SN x


	4. Chapter 4

**Final Alternative Ending! **I am taking more than my usual liberties with Canon, as I have decided to ignore the whole horcrux/unicorn blood thing. Because I can. Mwhahahah.

…….

Drifting into the warm slumber of the truly sated, part of Snape's consciousness registers that his Master is behaving unusually.

Instead of falling asleep alongside his concubine, the Dark Lord is rolling jerkily around the bed, making an odd throaty gasping sound and flailing his arms around. Severus supposes that he has taken some kind of stamina potion which has given him yet another – fourth? fifth? Snape has lost count – orgasm, which he has decided to attend to alone. As Voldemort makes no move to involve him, Severus succumbs to exhaustion and floats away on a gentle stream of pleasure.

When he wakes, it is a few seconds before he registers another difference. For the last two years, the Dark Lord has risen at dawn to begin another taxing day of despotism, leaving Snape alone to get up when and if he chooses, able to bask in the luxury of total solitude. Today, however, the light from the enchanted window registers that it is already mid-morning, yet his Master is still lying beside him.

Snape is not entirely surprised. Were he ruler of the world, he would have permitted himself a nice lie-in long before now. Determined to make sure the unexpected holiday is worth his Master's while, he rolls over and tenderly drapes an arm over the older man's chest.

Which is strangely cold.

Blinking in confusion, he sits up and looks properly at Voldemort. The red eyes are half closed and glassy, one arm is flung back and hanging limply off the side of the bed, the other is balled into a fist and resting on his abdomen. His ribcage, Severus notes, is not rising and falling.

"Master?" he says quietly, not quite ready to believe what all the evidence is telling him. When Voldemort does not reply, he rests his hand on an immobile cheek and is eerily reminded of the skin-on mooncalf steaks he used to mince for inclusion in the wolfsbane potion, a lifetime ago. His hand moves of its own accord to the pulse point at the Master's neck. He can feel nothing.

Snape slowly slides out of bed and pulls on his dressing gown.

"The Dark Lord is dead," he concludes aloud, as though forming the actual words will make some kind of difference. He waves his hand absently and the bedsheet slides up and covers the corpse from view. Sinking into a chair to take stock of this shock development, he does not realise for a full five minutes that he has performed magic.

Obviously, the rowan necklace's ability to inhibit his magic has died with its creator. He summons his wand and feels a wonderful surge of power as it vibrates gently in his grip. Delighted to be whole again, he casts a spell to snap the collar, one to clean himself, several to dress and in a fit of exuberance, a super-strength scouring charm to wash his hair. This is an exceptional occasion, after all.

Now he is free, Snape is not certain what to do next. He wonders who will step into the power vacuum left by the Dark Lord's demise and what the change will mean for him. It is highly unlikely that the new ruler will choose the old one's tainted whore as his own – similar situations in history dictate that a stringent purging of the defunct regime must happen before the new can be properly established. Of all the upheavals which Severus has lived through, this is his most dangerous time of all.

When a tentative knock sounds at the door, he starts violently and is looking for an escape route when he checks himself. He may have spent the last two years as a squib sex-toy, but he has always been a powerful wizard. There is no reason why his long-buried cunning should not be enough to save his hide once again. Perhaps there is no need for blind panic just yet. A quick revelation charm cast at the door brings a smile to his lips as he recognises the ideal three men paying a visit. Really, Snape could not have planned it better himself.

"Enter," he commands. They look at each other and all try to shuffle to the back to the queue, jostling to avoid being the first one through the door. Snape recognises their fear of the unknown – to his knowledge none but his Master has ever crossed the threshold of their private quarters. The luckless Wormtail is the first to peep around the doorframe. He gasps when his pale, watery eyes fall on Snape.

"Pettigrew," Snape greets him imperiously. A little more shuffling and the bulky forms of Crabbe and Goyle are disgorged into the room, curious to put a face to the voice.

"Ooh!" says Crabbe, goggling unashamedly.

"Um," says Goyle, doing a fair impersonation of a bemused trout.

"We thought you were dead," says Wormtail, glancing nervously around the room.

Snape sees no reason to make this easy for the mentally challenged branch of the Death Eaters. He crosses his arms over his chest and waits. Eventually, Pettigrew cracks.

"Is the Dark Lord here?" he whines nervously. "His admirable dedication to securing a glorious future for our world means that he never misses a morning strategy meeting. We thought we should come and see if everything was all right. If we could be of assistance, I mean."

Snape maintains his cool silence, knowing that he will learn most by making the others uncomfortable enough to try and fill the pendulous silence with interesting babble.

"This _is_ the Master's suite, isn't it?" he sniffles. "We have no wish to disturb his well-earned privacy, only to know that all is well. It's just that Lucius has another problem with the brats at Hogwarts, Draco isn't answering his floo and those wretched Weasley twins," he shudders at the memory of past torments inflicted on 'Scabbers', "have managed to throw off the Imperius potion and are running amok. Again."

Snape raises his left eyebrow an eighth of an inch. Wormtail's tongue darts out to moisten his cracking lips. Crabbe hiccups.

"So," the ratty little man continues, hopelessly, "We could do with some guidance."

Snape knows that this is one of the key crossroads in his life, that his actions over the next few moments will determine the course, not to mention the length, of his future. It seems that his late Master's despair over the state of the Government was entirely justified. He has only left them alone for a few hours and already everything is a big old mess. What these clowns need is a firm hand, a stern leader with lots of experience at controlling an undisciplined rabble, a level-headed, intelligent wizard whose track record boasts _results_.

Really, there is only one candidate for the post.

He vanishes the dead body lying hidden beneath its sheet and turns to face the three worried Death Eaters. Sneering down his nose at Wormtail, he gathers his robes around him with tremendous sinister dignity.

"Follow me," he commands in a tone which does not entertain the possibility of disobedience.

Looking rather relieved, they do.

…….

To Snape's delight, he finds that the temporary containment of his magic has only served to strengthen it. He is able to suppress Avery's indignant and foul-mouthed opposition to the new situation with a click of his fingers. The other Death Eaters all notice the _permanence_ of the suppression and the ease with which it was executed and collectively swallow. Within seconds they are falling over themselves to pay homage to the new Dark Lord.

…….

It is glaringly obvious within hours that Malfoy is failing dismally at being Headmaster.

"Lucius," he cannot control the incredulity in his voice. "The entire school is under the Imperius potion. They will do whatever you tell them. Exactly what is the problem?" There are white streaks in Malfoy's formerly pristine blond hair and it seems to be receding back from his forehead ever so slightly. He firmly clasps his hands together as he gazes up at Snape, but the new Master still notices their tremor.

"Brats, my Lord," he wavers. "Brats! Every last one of them! They obey specific orders, but you have to keep changing them as new ideas occur to them. You can't just say 'behave' because good or bad behaviour is a subjective concept. You need to be constantly vigilant."  
Snape frowns so devastatingly at Malfoy's use of the catchphrase of their former worst enemy that Lucius hurries to explain, losing a little of his poise as the words tumble out. "You say 'don't hit each other with your schoolbags', which they obey, but then they hit each other with books, so you say, 'don't hit each other with any objects' so they use their fists. So _then_ you have to say, 'don't hit at all' so they trip each other up and…" He is shaking all over now with the horror of it all. Snape raises his voice to make sure everyone in the throne room can hear him.

"Yet I succeeded in controlling these repugnant adolescents without the use of potions, from the tender age of twenty-two," he sneers. A murmur of admiration ripples through the room.

"If I may be so bold, Master," Lucius grovels unashamedly. "I suspect that is why your Lordship is sitting on the throne and the rest of us are on our knees before you."

Snape smirks with restrained amusement. Lucius' ability to spot which way the wind is blowing has stood him in excellent stead over the years, he really ought to be rewarded for such a flawless display of toad-eating. First things first, however.

"Macnair!" he calls.

"My Lord?" The dedicated killer shuffles forward.

"How do you like children, Walden?" he asks, still smirking.

"Usually with ketchup, Master," he leers.

"Perfect," Severus decrees. "Lucius, you're fired. Macnair, you are the new headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Effective immediately."

…….

Studying his list of the many ills requiring remedy in this exciting new dawn, he reaches the infamous 'Mudblood Question.'

"Bring me Draco," he commands. For a few minutes there is a furious whispering and scurrying and general intimation of bad news, during which, the younger Malfoy consistently fails to materialise. Snape rolls his eyes. "Well? Where is he?"

"Gone, Master," whispers Nott, cowering.

"Gone?"

"Disappeared, along with…" he tails off into silence.

"Along with whom?" demand the Dark Lord and Lucius in unison.

"One of the mudbloods," a tiny voice volunteers.

"Which one?" Malfoy shrieks, rising to his feet in outrage. "Which of that filth has dared to befoul the purest house of…" Belatedly, Lucius remembers that he has no place making such a scene in front of the great dictator, and pipes down in the face of a stern black glare. Nott seems cheered by the irritation of his superior Death Eater and looks him directly in the eye when he answers.

"I believe her name is Granger," he smiles sweetly.

Lucius laughs until he has to be slapped. Bellatrix is more than willing to oblige, fetching him a stylish, resonant crack across each cheek. As Crabbe and Goyle drag the still hysterical father out of the throne room, he is heard to scream that he can no longer 'take it', that all he requires is a 'quiet life' and 'bit of peace'. Narcissa mutters a series of dark intimations of what she will do to her 'little gobshite' of a son, were she ever to lay her hands on his 'good-for-nothing treacherous arse'.

"So who is in charge of Azkaban since Draco left?" Snape asks the assembled throng.

"Hem hem," a squat figure in a knitted sweater depicting large-eyed kittens sashays forward. Despite the fact that he is ruler of the British wizarding world and the most all-powerful person alive, he flinches back slightly in his seat at the onslaught of pink hair-ribbons, batrachian face and overwhelming smell of sickly sweet perfume.

"Yes, Dolores, you will be perfect," he grimaces, dismissing her. The poor muggle-borns would be begging for the return of the Dementors within days.

…….

Unfortunately, they are no nearer to solving the problem of what to do with all the other mudbloods, but Snape has no desire to spend his nights agonizing over it as Voldemort had. He needs someone else to investigate the possibilities. Scrutinizing the assembled ranks of murderers, sadists and dullards he realizes that none of them will do. Snape does not object to a little pain here and there, but he draws the line at full-scale genocide. An intelligent person is required for this task, one with compassion and sense yet who is easily intimidated. Bracing himself, Snape forms the words he never expected to willingly utter.

"Someone go and fetch Lupin."

The werewolf is not looking good. His face is lined and as grey as his hair; when he is thrown to the floor at the Dark Lord's feet, a bald spot the size of a chocolate frog packet is visible on the back of his head. Snape listens as he whines, weeps, apologises, appeals to his old 'comrade-in-arms's' better nature, urges him to 'do the right thing' and begs for news of his pathetic Gryffindor friends. When he finally runs out of woe and shuts up, Snape charges him with the responsibility of devising a humane solution compliant with his dark purposes.

"Prove yourself useful in this capacity and I may take notice of some of your wishy-washy liberal views on the running of the country," he adopts a bored expression and examines his fingernails. He can see cogs turning behind the suspicious amber eyes as Lupin realises that he is being handed a chance to make a difference to the lives of innocent people subjected to this new totalitarian regime.

"Why should you trust me?" he glares up at Snape.

"I don't," the Dark Lord says airily. "You will be under guard at all times. Any misdemeanour will be punished stringently and all suggestions will be subjected to a Death Eater committee before implementation to check for nefarious loopholes. Behave yourself, and there may be rewards in the future."

Lupin ponders this.

"You want me to be your conscience?" he concludes at last.

"If that is how you choose to describe it," inwardly he congratulates the sharp-witted beast for guessing correctly. Outwardly, he grimaces. "I am too busy to waste time pondering such trifles. You are lying around, idle, and have always been pathetically obsessed with the fair treatment of your fellow wizard. With one notable childhood exception, of course." He lets the festering anger at his adolescent bullying flash briefly in his eyes, to remind the old marauder that the grudge will never be overcome, that the worm has turned with devastating success. Lupin's friends once had the power to hurt Snape – now Snape has the power of life or death over every wizard in the country.

"Deal," Remus agrees, smiling weakly in the face of emotional onslaught.

"I do not make deals," Snape intones icily. "Try anything untoward and I will have you killed. Get out."

…….

Released once more from the Imperius potion, Ginny Weasley-Riddle stands before Snape with admirable dignity overriding her obvious fear and revulsion. A bright inquisitive baby is balanced on her hip.

"You," she says flatly.

"Me," agrees Snape.

"Dada?" asks Thomas, frowning at the unfamiliar dark-robed figure on the familiar throne.

"No, sweetheart," she smiles at him. "That's not your Dada."

"And therein lies our problem," says Snape softly. She raises her chin, and with a calmness bordering on serenity, kisses the top of her son's head.

"If you must kill him, there is nothing I can do. I only ask that you kill me too, as I don't think I could bear to live without him," she states simply.

"You are capable of loving the child of the wicked man who seized power and forced you into an unwanted pregnancy?" Snape is genuinely perplexed. Complicated potions and intricate Dark Arts spells have never been a problem to his fine mind, yet the female psyche has been unfathomable since day one.

"That's not Tommy's fault," she reasons.

Suddenly Snape plunges twenty years back in time and sees another intelligent redheaded witch defying common sense for the sake of the black-haired baby she holds.

He shakes himself violently and Weasley and Tommy come back into focus. The brief flashback is enough, however, to remind him of how the late Voldemort had almost created the weapon of his own destruction in his botched attempt on the tiny Potter's life. Almost. There is no way he can let this child grow up to become a threat to him now – who knows what powers the brat could develop, in time.

"You must understand that I cannot allow the child of my predecessor to thrive," he begins, steepling his fingers in front of his face. Ginny tenses. "However, my Special Advisor has suggested a course of action which would spare your son's life. He would have every trace of his magical ability permanently removed before being taken to an adoption centre on the other side of the world. It is likely that he would be raised by capable muggles with no idea of his heritage." Thank you, Lupin, he adds privately, for that perfectly guiltless solution.

"I'm going too," says Ginny immediately.

"Come now, Miss Weasley, I hardly think…"

"I'm going with him," she insists. "Destroy my magic as well, and obliviate me. There's nothing for me here, in your mockery of a society, where people are nothing but puppets to enact your twisted wishes. I don't want to remember this, to know how it used to be and to know what I've lost. Send Tommy and I to Australia as ignorant squibs, you'll never hear of us again."

Snape sighs, not finding any sensible reason to deny her request. Accepting this will mean one less potential troublemaker to deal with.

"Very well," he says.

…….

Next on the list is the tedious chore of sorting out the Ministry bureaucracy. It would take a particular kind of pedantic mind to be able to penetrate that seething maze of forms and filing systems, and some great skill to actually make sense of it, once they had. This one was easy.

"Bring me Percy Weasley."

…….

Severus arrives home with Ginny's condemnation still ringing in his ears. He barely acknowledges the solicitations of his concubine as his outer robe is removed and he is guided to his favourite armchair. Elegant fingers massage his hunched shoulders as he turns the burdens of leadership over and over inside his mind.

What is the point of ruling the world, if the world is made up of automatons. Can he keep dosing every witch and wizard in Britain with the Imperius potion in order to maintain his authority? Somehow Fred and George frequently overcome its effects and make inroads into organising revolution before they are caught. Snape ought to have them killed before they succeed, yet he is curious to discover how they manage what thousands of others cannot. Perhaps all those years of experimenting with dangerous substances have given them a certain resistance to it. Until the Death Eaters understand the problem, they must be allowed to live and continue their tiresome escapades.

"Master, you seem rather weary this evening, if you will pardon my saying so," the other man says tentatively, stroking his furrowed brow with great tenderness. "May I help?"

"Everything is fine," he lies, pulling his coerced lover into his lap, absently fingering the beads circling the fine, pale neck.

A greater threat than the Weasley twins is posed by Draco and Granger, wherever they are. Young Malfoy would be content to begin a new life somewhere and write off his past as a bad job, but the know-it-all will insist on organising resistance overseas. He suspects she will have already contacted the ex-pat British wizards in Spain, Greece, Australia, New Zealand, the US, South Africa and the hundred other places where they emigrate to escape the dismal weather, and that at any moment the new regime could fall under external attack.

He must start Lupin working on a solution, though just now the simplest thing would be to send hitwizards out to hunt the fugitives down and terminate them. But could he trust the assassins not to just scarper?

He pours himself a large drink from the sealed bottle on the side table and forces his brain to relax. The other man feels him let go and nuzzles his neck, kissing him reverently. Snape looks at him properly for the first time that evening.

"Lucius, have you dyed your hair?" he takes a moment to spot what has changed.

"Do you like it, Master?" asks Malfoy coyly. "I found the white streaks rather unbecoming."

"Very nice," replies Snape, running his fingers through the blond locks. Lucius smiles, apparently happy to have pleased his Master. He often tells Severus how pleasant it is to no longer be weighed down with responsibility, to merely lie around their bedroom all day, making himself beautiful in preparation for nights of lovemaking with the Dark Lord. Snape monitors the combinations of cosmetics very closely, fully aware of his former mentor's skill at improvised brewing. Though his magic is suppressed, he is not to be trusted. Not for a second.

Even an hour of passion with the adoring beauty cannot stifle the doubts in his mind this evening.

Yes, Snape is a hugely powerful wizard, but is he capable of sustaining this situation?

Yes, the Imperius still works for 99 per cent of the population, but for how much longer?

No, he is not certain what will happen if they throw it off.

Yet despite these awful doubts, there is still great satisfaction in knowing that he rules the country. For this moment, he has _power_. His word is law, just as the miserable and neglected little boy always dreamed it should be. Everything is to be done his way now, or else. Even if it all comes crashing down, he will have been be one of the very few who have wielded absolute political control. How could he complain?

There has been no one to care for his cursed existence in the past – everyone cared what he did now. It may all end tomorrow, but while he could, he would enjoy the reward for those long years of pain and obscurity. He would make changes where they were necessary, try and establish fairness for his subjects wherever possible, and remedy those ills which had outraged his sense of logic in younger days so that when it all ended, those with half a brain would realise that he had actually done a modicum of _good_. The mark he would leave on history would be an undeniably ambiguous one, yet it would be significant, he vowed to himself.

Did he miss the way things used to be? Not the teaching, certainly. Not the spying. Not the feeling of insignificance.

He rolls over and watches Lucius dozing, seeming young and beautiful in his sleep, golden hair radiating from his head like some fair maiden in a fairytale. Not for him the onerous burden of office or the horror of life-changing decisions.

Does he envy Lucius? Sometimes. He can remember a time when it was he who slept the sleep of the innocent, with nothing to do but obey Voldemort's orders. It had been months since the morning he awoke to find his lover, his Master, his captor, dead; and already the world is a very different place. Thanks to Severus, it is _better._

Does he miss Voldemort?

The Dark Lord considers all the evils of life which he still has to remedy. He knows that only he can be trusted to put things right for the greater good of humanity, that no dunderheaded politician will be able to do a half-decent job of it. Until The End arrives, either from within or without, he will do what he can. He will bide his time.

He is much too busy to miss Voldemort.

…….

AN: There you go, ending number three! Some differences, some similarities. I think my personal favourite is the second one, where it was all a lie. (Did anyone else see the ending of the 'wonderful' Sunset Beach? Heh heh.)

Thanks for all your reviews so far, I'm pleased you have read this silly little exploration.

x


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